


Tender

by beaubete



Series: Inevitable/Tender [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: D/s relationship, Frottage, M/M, Sounding, piercing play, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Pity. Lovely thick thing like this seems to be just begging for a round with my Hegars,” Q comments idly, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he sucks at his lip in memory. “What fun.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender

**Author's Note:**

> Big warning for sounding, since I know that that can be disturbing to some: sounding is the act of penetrating the penis for medical or sexual purposes, in this case with sounds, metal tools designed for this purpose. There's also fairly gentle D/s going on in this one, though much more explicitly than in most of my fics that skate this line.

“You’ve been stretching it,” Q says, voice soft.  He doesn’t sound unhappy—more intrigued than annoyed, his fingers cool and quick as he dandles the silver hoop that locks Bond’s cock on the narrow rod like a pinned display.  It wiggles, subtly looser, and Bond flushes, caught.

“I like the way it feels.”

Q doesn’t say anything, just hums thoughtfully and rotates the pin, pulling gently at the jewelry where it’s intimately attached, and Bond could swear he’s doing it on purpose, just to watch the way he hardens in those clever hands.  The look Q shoots him from under his lashes, hot and still pretending to be vexed, confirms it; so does the way he shifts around the cockstand that’s forming between his thighs.  They do this, Q pretends at submission, but it’s an act neither of them can keep up.  This thing that’s happening between them, it’s filthy.  Bond’s cock lurches between Q’s fingers.  There is a narrow case like a lockpick’s toolkit by Q’s knee.  He doesn’t open it yet. 

He’s quick at getting the ring out, spinning the little ball until it’s loose and he can work the ring from the flesh, from the steel.  It’s the strangest sensation, that moment when it passes through the rod and the shaft of his cock; Q gives a vicious little twist as he angles it free and Bond’s nerves spark, spitting pleasure like cool embers along his skin.  It takes some careful leverage to remove the pin, a cautious hand on the head of his cock to brace as it’s pulled back.  There’s cold lube and then the pointed end of the pin, and Q is fucking his cock with the tiny metal baton, rolling it between his fingers until it’s stretching and taunting his singed nerves.  He wants more; he’s terrified of more.

“Are you ready for the first one?”  Q’s voice is calm, but there’s a breathiness to it that’s echoed in the roses blooming on his cheeks.  This is—Bond nods and Q nods back.  The case is long and flat, almost like a cigar case, but when Q opens it—“Breathe,” Q instructs quietly, and Bond could be embarrassed by the palm that smoothes its way up his side if he weren’t still mesmerized by the memory of the largest, that—“It’s only 18.  I won’t use that one on you today; you’re not ready for it,” Q says.  “We’re going for the 7 today—you already wear a 5 every day, so it’ll be a small stretch—maybe the 8 at the most.  You’ve been touching yourself a lot to get your wand to fit so loosely.  I may even need to make you another.”

And he has.  Been touching himself a lot.  Hot blood spills across his cheekbones as he thinks about the way he can’t keep his hands from himself, the way he’s fucked his cock with the thin wand and imagined just this moment.  “Do you do the 18?” he asks, because _god_ , that one’s the size of his little finger, and—the look Q flashes him then is surprised, a little bashful and flirty.

“Sometimes.  It’s a little big.  Heavy.”  It’s imagining Q with that heavy metal rod in his cock that does it, that settles the fact that he’s honestly going to let Q at him with those toys that look like tools, his little kit of wonder.  He starts to harden again and Q smiles, slow and promising.  “Don’t get hard now, Double Oh Seven,” he says, and _oh_ , how can he obey when Q looks at him like that?  “We’ll have to get you soft again before we can get started.” 

“I can think of a few ways,” Bond says, but it’s hard to keep his voice droll when Q rolls to his feet like a dancer, moves away from the chair to find gloves from the cupboard and slicks his fingertips with lube.  It sounds like sex, latex slick-sticky and squelching.

“Willpower, for one.  If you come before I get it in, you’ll be too sensitive to do much.  I prefer longer play,” Q says idly, as if he’s talking about a visit to the park and not cockstuffing.  “Shall I leave you to get yourself under control, Double Oh Seven?”

It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done, deciding.  He nods short and Q is kind, dimpling cheeks as he pats soothingly along Bond’s chest, strokes his chest hair with a happy sound.  “Five minutes?”

“Three,” Bond replies, and it’s not a plea.  He’s not begging, and if he reminds himself of that perhaps it will be true.  It’s torture, staring up at the ceiling for three minutes, but he survives.  Barely.  When Q returns, Bond’s cock gives a happy little twitch, a Pavlovian response that makes Q’s lip curl, but he’s dutifully limp while Q opens the case again, fingers skimming the sounds until he finds the right one and begins to coat it in thick lubricating jelly.  Once it’s sleek and shining, there’s another dab at the end of his cock, shockingly cool and viscous, and then Q has the curving metal resting, just delicately pressing, at the slit.

“Okay?”  Q sounds winded, eyes bruised and lip trembling bitten.  A feeling like power sweeps over Bond and he nods decisively.  “And to stop?”

“Evening star,” Bond breathes, reluctant to say the words.  Q’s smile is sweet.  The sound sinks in barely a centimetre and Bond’s world lights up with burning stretch. 

“Hah!”  The cry bursts from him, abrupt and stinging, and to Q’s credit he stops the slow glide with a practiced hand.  It’s—he’s not sure how to describe this feeling; he was so sure he’d gotten used to it, but it feels like the first time he slipped the ring in, fishing delicately through untouched parts—parts most people would never think to touch, would never imagine could be touched at all—of his body with the metal loop.  He’d spent the day bent double the first time he’d tried it after the swelling had faded; he’d come off in his trousers more times than he’d believed possible for a man his age.  His cock head swells, shaft getting hard in Q’s hand and climbing up the rod on its own as it grows stiff, greedy.  Q watches, releases the rod, lets it sink another three centimetres until Bond is squirming like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s office.

“Tell me,” Q says as he gently coaxes the sound’s gentle curve back out and releases it, letting its weight draw it back in slowly.  “All of it.  I want you to tell me.”

But Bond’s not sure—can’t find the words, if the words even exist that can—it’s _tight_ , this feeling.  Tight skin stretched around the fat metal piercing him, tight clenching stomach as he’s touched deeper and thicker than his little wand has ever been able to go; the sound dips lower, sinks in, and the noise that escapes isn’t a word, couldn’t be classed a word in any language.  It’s an empty, aching sound of pleasure; Q tugs at the metal and lets it sink again and Bond very nearly sobs.  “I ca—Q, I can’t, I— _please_ , Q,” he pleads, but he has no idea what he’s begging for as Q fucks him deep and slow, spits him on the narrow rod and leaves him crying.  Q understands, draws the sound up and up until the sibilant shape of it is at the very top and holds him still and upright before letting it drag itself in again, twisting and curling inside, slick and aching and—it’s not a scream, not really, that escapes when it nudges at his prostate from the inside, but it’s a very near thing.

“Eveni—oh _Christ_ , I _can’t_.”  His legs won’t work; he’s dead-limbed on the chair and rocking up in desperate, shattered thrusts, trying to shift it, to get it out, because it’s _too fucking much,_ and he can’t, can’t.  Q’s faster than anything he’s ever seen before, fingers stilling the metal rod, pulling it away from the place where it’s resting on his bladder, and relief is sudden and blinding, leaving him dizzy and overwhelmed.  There’s half a safeword between them, and Q is trembling, wide-eyed and blind with lust between his thighs.

“Are you okay?” Q asks with a voice like he’s been sucking cock, throaty and thick and warm, and Bond shakes like jelly.  He tries to nod, but it’s weak at best.  “If you want—” and Bond can see the physical pain it brings Q to offer, the way he’s got one fist clenched in his own lap like he’s going to spurt off if he doesn’t clutch it to keep it under control, “I mean, if you need to stop.  You said—”

“No.”

“If you use the safeword, I’m going to stop,” Q says, and Bond swallows.  Nods.  “Now tell me the truth: do you want to keep going?”

“Yes.”

And Q peers at him a moment longer, gives a satisfied nod, and eases the end of the rod back inside.  “God, you’re beautiful like this,” Q says with a little sigh, lashes fluttering as he leans close to watch the sound ease itself in.  As it gets deeper, closer to that dizzy, overwhelming spot, Bond can feel himself breaking into a cold sweat.

“Not—not so deep?” It’s as close to nonchalant as he can get, fingers curling over the armrests.  He won’t reach for it, won’t take it out, but he can’t—Q catches it before it touches the live wire inside him and he shivers a sigh of relief.  “It’s too much, I—”

“Oh!” Q says, and his eyes light up in recognition.  “Too direct.  I—yes, my first time, too—you take it so beautifully,” he drifts, the pleased and dreamy admiration in his voice lifting flutters in Bond’s belly for a moment, “it’s easy to forget you’ve never—tell me?”

“When it,” Bond starts, biting his lip.  “Touches.  I go numb everywhere but.  It’s all I can feel.”  He laughs breathlessly and Q nods.

“I cried, the first time,” Q confides, and yes.  The mental image: Q young and thin on his side, cock speared and shoulders shaking, Bond imagines it was lovely.  “Came so hard it felt like a bruise inside, all the way up from the inside of my body.  Like a gorgeous bruise; I wanted to press my fingers to it to see if it still hurt.”

“Did it?”

“Oh,” Q breathes, “ _yes_.”

They’re quiet then, Bond trying to collect himself and Q relishing the memories; it’s by unspoken agreement that Q starts again, gently—impossibly gently, tender bit by tender bit—nudging the end back inside.  A bruise inside is the perfect description, really.  Bond’s cock feels bruised and sensitive, each tiny slide of the metal enough to push at his senses until his eyes screw up and he shudders at the sensation.  It finally stops, sits resting in that spot that feels exactly like electricity deep in the root of his cock, and Q breathes over him, visibly shaking excited.

“Do you like it?” Q asks, and Bond looks up at his sweaty curls and shining face and at the way Q’s eyes seem to glow and nods into the dazed flush of affection he feels at the sight, lust-drunk and overwhelmed as he ever was losing his virginity with his first maid at school.  Q’s smile is beatific.  “I knew you would.”  He’s stunning.

“I want to—” Bond starts, but he doesn’t know, doesn’t want to move and doesn’t know how he wants to touch, only that he does and that the want, the need to see Q in pleasure is almost painful.  “Let me?”

Q’s lips turn rueful.  “You shouldn’t—shouldn’t move,” he starts, pausing to brace Bond’s cock upright carefully as he shuffles forward, slides catlike to his feet and presses his hard cock to Bond’s shoulder, close enough that he can lip desperately at it through the tweed, but that’s not quite what he wants, either.

“Just…,” Bond trails off, searching for the word for the image that’s tickling at the back of his brain.  He feels groggy, slow-witted but safe to let Q do the thinking for both of them; he trusts Q to understand.  “Rubbing?”  Q bites his lip.

“Hands?”  Bond shakes his head.  “Your—your shoulder?  Like this?” Q asks, pressing against Bond’s shoulder carefully, but while the hot smell of him so close is pleasant, it’s not exactly—“I can’t—not with the sound in; I wouldn’t dare.  We’d probably puncture something, and—”

But yes, Bond realizes suddenly, it’s exactly what he wants: Q sitting on his lap, body close and eyes closed as he rubs—“Carefully,” he manages through a throat that feels rusted shut with pleasure.  “If you do it carefully.”

It’s not that it takes convincing.  Not really, not when Q is in the throes of his own mental images with his hand already on the placket of his trousers.  He gives a little shimmy and he’s bare from the waist down, not even shy enough for a blush until Bond traces the slender line of a thigh with reverent fingertips; he arranges Bond’s stuffed cock carefully, then primly sits at the end of Bond’s knee.  His cock is happy, eager, and it makes slick little sounds when Q strokes over it with a new sachet of lube.  There’s nothing safe about this sex—it’s frightening and intimate, and Bond can feel every detail of Q’s cock when he lines the tip up with the stretched-thin patch of his frenulum and rubs.  The world goes dark, because if Bond watches this, he’s going to explode.

The entire world beyond the back of his eyelids has gone.  In the far distance, Q shifts, pants and a thousand years later there’s hot breath on his ear, an arm inching around his shoulders as Q sidles closer, strokes at Bond’s cock with his own with infinite care, and makes little sharp noises like broken glass.  It _hurts_ , this sensation that’s too enormous to fit inside Bond’s chest, and he presses outward in every direction, controlled collapse and the heady thump of Q’s pulse against the most tender part of his body.  He could beg mercy, would beg, but he’d never know if he was pleading for it to stop or go on.  Q squirms in his lap and he curls a hand around that thin, naked waist, buries his face into that sharp collarbone beneath his nose, and says nonsense words until his jaw hurts with them.

“So good, James,” Q says into his hair, and Bond can feel himself dropping, falling into some deep and hollow place where the only thing that matters is the pride in Q’s voice, the way he says his name.  He hasn’t let himself be James in such a very long time, and he’s surprised how _comfortable_ it is to fit into that skin again.  Q pets him and whispers into his ear. 

He notices he’s crying before he notices he’s come, thick and white and gluey around the sound; Q holds him in place by the end of the rod, rocks his hips in hard little jerks against the plane of his hip and adds to the mess before easing it free with a little sigh.  Bond feels broken apart.  “Are you okay?” Q asks once he’s let the sound drop to the floor.  Bond’s aware distantly that they should be moving, that they should be cleaning up, that he should be brushing the encounter off, but Q curls protectively around his head with both arms and it’s…nice.  Pleasant.  “It can be a little bit much your first time.”  He doesn’t mention the tears that have stopped, already faded but for the pulling at his face.

“Thank you,” Bond— _James_ —says, and Q’s cardigan takes the words almost the moment they leave his mouth, but with the way Q’s fingers still and start again at the soothing circles against his scalp, he knows he’s been heard.


End file.
